Chapter 2 The captive' s Fate

The world beyond Zita's village was far less forgiving than she had imagined. The roads stretched endlessly, winding through dark forests and abandoned hamlets, where the scent of fear still lingered in the air. Each step she took away from her home was a gamble, but she had already resolved that turning back was not an option.

Days passed in uneasy solitude. Zita traveled by foot, hiding in the undergrowth whenever she heard movement in the distance. She survived on the food she had packed-hard bread, dried fruits, and the last remnants of cheese from her mother's kitchen. But as the provisions ran low and exhaustion gnawed at her bones, the reality of her reckless decision began to weigh heavily upon her.

Then came the riders.

She had seen them first in the dead of night, black horses galloping down the worn path with a terrifying speed. Their riders were cloaked figures, moving like shadows, their red eyes gleaming even from a distance. Zita barely had time to press herself against the roots of a massive oak tree before the group thundered past her.

Vampires.

Her heart pounded as she stayed hidden, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had been lucky this time, but the roads were not safe. The further she traveled toward Rome, the stronger their presence became.

On the fourth night, as she crept past an abandoned farmhouse, her luck ran out.

A sudden rustling of leaves was all the warning she got before strong hands grabbed her from behind. A scream tore from her throat, but it was silenced as a cold palm clamped over her mouth.

"You should have stayed hidden, little one," a voice whispered near her ear.

She thrashed wildly, kicking and clawing, but her captor barely flinched. More figures materialized from the darkness, their glowing eyes piercing through the night. She had walked straight into a trap.

Zita fought until her strength abandoned her, her vision blurring as her captors bound her wrists with iron shackles. The cold metal burned against her skin, making her cry out in pain. Silver-one of the few weaknesses vampires had. But unlike them, she was only human.

As her knees buckled, one of the vampires crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up with a gloved hand. He had a cruel smile, his fangs glistening in the moonlight.

"You'll fetch a fine price," he mused. "The prince enjoys a bit of spirit in his pets."

Her stomach twisted in fear.

The prince?

Before she could protest, a sharp strike to the side of her head sent her world spiraling into darkness.

.............................

Zita awoke to the sound of chains rattling. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and something metallic-blood.

She was no longer in the forest. Dim torchlight flickered along stone walls, casting eerie shadows across the damp underground chamber. Dozens of people, humans like her, were huddled together in cages, their eyes hollow with despair. Some whispered prayers under their breath; others sat in silence, resigned to their fate.

Panic surged through her. She had to get out.

Gripping the iron bars of her own cage, she yanked as hard as she could, but they did not budge. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Of course, escape wouldn't be that easy.

Before she could attempt another futile effort, footsteps echoed from beyond the chamber doors. A hush fell over the captives as a group of vampires strode in, their regal clothing a stark contrast to the filth around them. These were not mere hunters.

They were rulers.

Zita's breath caught in her throat as he stepped forward.

Ammar Richard.

She had heard whispers of the vampire prince even in her secluded village. A ruler known for his cruelty, his power unmatched among the Nightborn. Unlike the other vampires, who merely fed on humans, Ammar treated them as entertainment-to be used and discarded as he pleased.

His appearance was striking. Cloaked in deep black velvet, with a silver sword strapped to his hip, he exuded an aura of dominance. His dark hair, barely tamed, framed a face too perfect to belong to a monster. But it was his eyes that held her captive-pale and piercing, as if they could see straight into her soul.

The auction began.

One by one, the captives were dragged forward, sold to the highest bidder. Zita's stomach churned as she watched them be led away, their fates uncertain. She refused to break.

When it was her turn, two guards hauled her to the center of the room. The auctioneer, a thin, pale man with sharp teeth, smirked as he gestured toward her.

"A rare find-young, strong, and full of spirit! A perfect addition to any household."

Murmurs filled the room, but before the bidding could begin, Ammar raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.

His gaze locked onto Zita's, assessing her. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he spoke one word.

"Mine."

The auctioneer hesitated but dared not argue. The prince had made his decision. No one else would dare challenge him.

Zita felt her knees weaken. She had hoped for survival, but now she wasn't sure if death would have been the kinder fate.

As the guards unshackled her and dragged her toward Ammar, she forced herself to stand tall. She would not cower before this monster.

But as his cold fingers traced the side of her face, amusement flickering in his gaze, she realized something far more terrifying than death.

The vampire prince did not just want to own her.

He wanted to break her.